Asleep
by Caskett54
Summary: Rose Tyler is used to the sounds of the TARDIS. So it's not the nights where the noise is nearly deafening when she lies awake, staring up at the ceiling. It's the nights where there's no noise at all. Silence on the TARDIS means one of two things: either the Doctor's asleep, or he's upset. With asleep being the less likely of the two options. Oneshot, 10/Rose, sad and fluffy.


Rose Tyler is used to the sounds of the TARDIS.

She's used to the soft humming of the beautiful blue box, the sweet musical buzzing that's constantly playing in the background in this wonderful place. When she first began travelling with the Doctor, it bothered her; now, it comforts her. It lulls her to sleep at night rather than keeping her awake. And she's used to the sounds the Doctor makes as he mills about while she slumbers. Being a Time Lord, he doesn't need much sleep, and her 'silly' human need for eight hours a night never fails to irritate and bore him. As she lies awake in bed, trying to get to sleep, she'll often hear soft clatters and mechanical whirring as he tinkers endlessly with whatever device or piece of technology or collection of metal bits has caught his attention most recently. She'll sometimes hear him singing to himself as he wanders the halls of the TARDIS, and occasionally, she can hear a movie playing in the media room. More than once, he's decided to go off on an adventure while she's asleep, and this almost always results in him waking her. When things go well, he'll hurry to her room and shake her awake and tell her all about it with bright, excited eyes. On the other hand, when things go badly, he'll come rushing in, pull her out of bed despite her bleary protests, and drag her on an adventure with him while she's only half-awake. All in all, this amounts to a rather noisy environment she's trying to fall asleep in. But it's home.

Yes, Rose Tyler is used to the sounds of the TARDIS.

At this point, it's not the nights where the noise is nearly deafening when she lies awake, staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. It's the nights where there's no noise at all.

Silence in the TARDIS almost never bodes well. When it's quiet while Rose is trying to sleep, it means one of two things: either the Doctor's asleep, or he's upset. With asleep being the less likely of the two options.

So when it's quiet on the TARDIS, Rose can never fall asleep.

And tonight, it's quiet on the TARDIS.

Sometimes she stubbornly stays in bed until she's too tired to not fall asleep, and then she runs on very little sleep the next day. Sometimes she tells herself everything's fine and she really shouldn't worry, and then in the morning she asks him if anything's wrong, and he always tells her that he's fine. And she's got a bad feeling that it's always a lie. But still, sometimes she denies her own instincts and stays in bed.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, she rolls out of bed after a mere twenty minutes of trying to fall asleep. She pulls on a sheer pink dressing gown and slips her feet into her fuzzy white slippers, and she leave her room and heads down the hallway.

She knows that she's made the right decision when it only takes her five minutes to find the Doctor's room. Sometimes, the twisting corridors of this box are like a maze, and she can't find anything. This happened to her a lot when she first started travelling with the Doctor, but it's happened with less and less frequency as time has gone on. When the TARDIS is in a helpful mood, it doesn't take her any time at all to find the room she's looking for. And tonight, the route from her room to the Doctor's is not long or winding. It's short and straightforward, and the door is unlocked. The TARDIS wants her to find him.

She cautiously pushes the door inward and looks inside, glancing around at the black-and-white, simplistic room. And yes, there's the Doctor – sleeping. The less likely option. At first glance, it seems that everything's fine, but she knows him well enough to know his tells. She knows how to know when he's not alright. The rise and fall of his chest beneath the dark gray blanket is just a little too rabid, a little too labored. His body is still, but his head tosses back and forth, lolling gently to one side and then sharply rolling back to face the other way. Clumps of the blanket are knotted in his tightly clenched fists, like he's trying to squeeze the life out of the fabric, and his knuckles are white. He's pale, too pale, and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.

She didn't know that Time Lords had bad dreams. But she recognizes a nightmare when she sees one.

"Doctor," she whispers, hurrying into the room. She barely manages to make it to him without breaking into a run, but when she's about to place a hand on his shoulder and shake him awake, she stops as suddenly as a paused video. Who knows what he's dreaming about? What if he lashes out, thinking she's some sort of an enemy? If he accidentally hurt her, even a little bit… she'd forgive him, of course, but she thinks the guilt might crush him. So she stands there, frozen, debating her options in her mind, for what could be a minute or an eternity. She stays still until a pained, miserable moan escapes the Doctor's lips, and it's that sound that spurs her into action. "Doctor," she says quietly, brushing her fingers across his cheek as she sits down on the edge of the bed. "Doctor, wake up." He doesn't, so she repeats, more forcefully, "Doctor."

"Rose," he chokes out, and for a moment she's relieved, but then his head thrashes towards her and she sees that his eyes are still firmly shut. He's still dreaming.

Wait. Is he dreaming about _her? _

"Doctor," she hisses, moving her hand to his shoulder and shaking him oh-so-gently.

"Rose," he moans again, turning his head away from her. "No, don't – no, please, leave her –" The last two words come out as some combination of speech, a panicked gasp, and a moan of pain and desperation. She can hear the fear in his voice, and it scares her, because it's so new, so foreign. The Doctor is never afraid – probably due to a combination of his bravery, his selflessness, and his significant lack of a self-preservation instinct. Nothing scares him. But whatever it is that he's dreaming about him obviously terrifies him.

"Please," he moans. "Please, leave her – take me, kill me, just don't hurt her –" A strangled sob tears its way out of his throat. "No, please – _Rose –_"

She can't leave him in this hell of a dream any longer. It hurts her to see him in so much pain. She doesn't care if he tries to strangle her the moment he's conscious. She has to wake him up.

"Doctor!" she says, loud and abrupt, shaking his shoulder unceremoniously. "Doctor, wake up!"

His eyes snap open, and for a moment, he's in a state of panic. His breaths come fast and heavy, and his eyes dart around the room frantically. She whispers, "Doctor," and his gaze immediately jumps to her; a sound that's half-sob and half-sigh of relief escapes his lips, and he reaches out, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down. Her head rests against his chest, and she can feel him shaking as he quietly cries.

"It's okay," she murmurs reassuringly, reaching up to brush her fingers against his cheek again; quickly, he lifts his hand and catches hers, clinging to her like she's a lifeline. "It was just a dream. It's okay."

"Rose," he whispers in a haunted tone, holding her close to him.

"It's okay," she repeats. "I'm okay." She slowly extricates herself from his arms, not because she doesn't want to be held by him, just because the position she fell into when he pulled her down is rather uncomfortable. She sits up, and though fear crosses his face when she begins to move away from him, he quickly understands what she's doing and does the same. As he rests his back against the headboard, the blankets fall into his lap, revealing his chest – he wears a simple gray t-shirt, soaked with sweat. He looks odd to her without his whole pinstriped suit getup, in this plain shirt with his familiar gravity-defying hair plastered to his head. He doesn't look like the Doctor. He looks scared.

She scoots away from the edge of the bed closer to the center and slides into a spot just beside him, with her back against the headboard; instantly, his arm goes around her shoulders and he pulls her close to him again. She lets her head rest against his chest, smiling softly at the feeling of his fingers running through her hair.

They sit there in silence for a while before he asks, in a hoarse, broken voice, "How long were you here?"

"Before you woke up?" He nods, and she says, "Just a few minutes."

"Was I –" He hesitates. "Did I –"

"You talked a bit," she tells him. "You sounded, um…" She fidgets awkwardly. "Frightened."

He presses a light kiss to the top of her head and murmurs, "I'm sorry," into her hair.

"Sorry for what?"

"For –" He stops, flailing for the right words. "I don't want – I don't like you to see me like that."

"It's alright." She reaches for his hand – the one that isn't tangled in her hair – takes it, and squeezes it comfortingly.

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "It's not. You shouldn't have to –" He swallows. "It's not fair to you."

"I'm fine."

"No." He shakes his head, pulling her closer. "Rose Tyler, you are brilliant." He tightens his grip on her, holding her close to him with a desperation that suggests he's afraid that if he lets go even for a second, she'll disappear. She tucks her knees up to her chest, curling up as she huddles in his arms, and she can feel him shivering. He takes a deep, rattling breath, trying to inhale her light flowery scent, just to reassure himself that she's there, that she's okay. "And I can't lose you," he murmurs.

She turns her head upward to look him in the eye; delicate hazel delves into deep chocolate brown, searching for the reason for his fear. "You're not going to lose me," she says simply.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he says quietly. Even though, the way she said it… it didn't sound like a promise. It sounded like a fact. Which, maybe, in her mind, it is. He knows she's thought about the day when their time of travelling together will finally be over. How could she not have after the whole adventure at the school with Sarah Jane? But maybe she thinks that she'll stay with him right up until the day she dies. That does seem to be what they all think. And knowing Rose, she's probably not imagining a violent death via Dalek or something like that… no, he doesn't even want to think about that. She's probably imagining herself on her deathbed with blonde hair turned white, having lived to a fantastic old age, slipping peacefully away with him at her side. She doesn't realize that no one ever stays with him for that long.

"I'll make all the promises I like," she replies, and that's one of the things he loves about her – her independence. But just this once, can't she listen? Can't she do as he says and spare him the pain later?

"Don't leave," he whispers, and he's not sure if he means for her not to leave him alone right now or not to leave him ever, in general. Both, maybe. Though one is impossible.

She shifts so that she's sitting on her side, in a way, and most of her body is angled towards him; she slides just a bit closer to him, curling into his embrace. "What could possibly make me want to leave you?"

He's not sure which interpretation of 'don't leave' she's replying to. He's going to go with the impossible one. "It's not always a choice."

"What," she says, "d'you think I'm just gonna… lie down, and – and let it happen? D'you think I'm gonna let some daft alien or something take me away from you?"

"Rose, I –"

"Shut it, you, I'm talking," she interrupts, pulling away from him, just far enough so that she can look him in the eye; her expression is deadly serious. "That's not going to happen, Doctor," she says. "I'm not going to let that happen. I'll fight. I'll fight to stay with you, or – or fight to get back to you." She cracks a tiny smile. "Everybody underestimates blondes, they'll never see it coming."

He allows a tiny laugh to escape his lips, but it comes out sounding sad and broken; he pulls her back to him, holding her as tightly (if not tighter) than before. "You are just like your mother," he murmurs.

"Shut up," she mutters through a smile.

"In the best possible way," he adds quickly. After a moment's pause, he murmurs, "Stay here."

"What, tonight?"

"You know…" He tries for an indifferent shrug. "If you don't mind. 'Cause, if you do, then –"

"No, no," she interrupts. "That's – that's fine." She shifts into a slightly more comfortable position in his arms, resting her head against his chest. "I'll stay."

"Thank you," he whispers, but the words are barely more than a breath and she doesn't reply, so he isn't sure if she heard.

They stay there, sitting together, with her curled up in his arms. Eventually, her eyes drift shut, and her breathing slows to the gentle, rhythmic pattern of deep sleep. He, on the other hand, stays awake, holding her and staring off into space. He's not sure how long he stays like that. It must be under eight hours, because Rose doesn't wake up, but it feels like an eternity. And honestly, he doesn't think he'd mind if it was. An eternity spent holding Rose's sleeping form close is not the worst fate imaginable. Not by a long shot.

When he finally moves, it's only to turn his head and press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. He lifts his hand and caresses her face, safe in the knowledge that he won't accidentally wake her – he knows from the repeated experience of trying to wake her to drag her along on an adventure that Rose Tyler is a heavy sleeper. He can say anything to her right now, and he'll be safe knowing that she won't hear.

He knows that with someone like him, this is the closest he's going to get to a face-to-face confession. Because he's a coward, and he doesn't want to risk the pain. What he's not sure of is who's he's afraid will get hurt.

He has to say this to her. Just once. It doesn't matter that she won't hear (well, actually, it does matter, more than almost anything, but he's too much of a coward to tell her while she's conscious). So, as he brushes his hand against her cheek, as he runs his fingers gently through her hair, he whispers, "Rose Tyler, I love you."

He thought saying it would make him feel free, like he's had some sort of burden lifted off his chest. It doesn't. It just makes him feel even heavier.

He doesn't know if he can handle love.

But it seems the universe doesn't care. It handed him Rose Tyler just after he lost everything, maybe in the hopes that she could heal him (which she has). Or maybe the universe just has a sense of humor, and in his darkest hour, sent him someone who could lift him higher than he's ever soared before. And between adoration and euphoria and wandering thoughts of _I don't deserve her, _he would never realize that by letting her lift him up, he's only setting himself up to fall further than ever.

He fears the day that he'll finally have to let go of her. Perhaps more than he's ever feared anything in his very long life. Because he knows that he won't survive losing her. He knows that he'll never recover. Not completely.

That's why he can't say the words to her when she can actually hear him. Because he can't let her lift him any higher, because he knows that it'll only make the fall worse. That's why he can only whisper 'I love you' to her when she's deep in sleep.

Perhaps the words will find their way into her dreams, and subconsciously, she'll know. He's honestly not sure if that's something that he wants or not.

"Trouble is," he whispers, "I love you too much."

And then he falls silent and consents to simply sit there, holding her close to him and wishing that he was anyone but the man he is so that they could have a life together, the sort of life she deserves. So that he could be someone who deserves her.

So that he could tell her properly. So that he could tell her with a bouquet of the flowers that are her namesake and a proper date and three little words spoken while the recipient is conscious.

So he doesn't just have to tell her by whispering it brokenly in her ear while she's asleep.

-0-0-0-

**Overused plot is overused. But whatever. This wanted to be written. And I was in the need of… what do you call fluff when it's tragic and angsty? It's not really fluff anymore, is it? Whatever it is, I needed to write some of it. And this is the result. So go ahead and sing my praises. I know, I'm fantastic. If you don't mind, could you transcribe your praise-singing in the little review box down there? You know, if it's not too much trouble. Yup, that box there. The one with the little blue button that says 'Post Review'. Yeah, that's the one. That would be fabulous. Thanks!**

**-Caskett54**


End file.
